


Sunday

by Mottlemoth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Ficlets, First Time, M/M, Married mystrade, PWP, Romance, Short Stories, Shower Sex, Soft Smut Sunday, True Love, Young Mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-05-30 07:28:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 13,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15092015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth
Summary: Collected NSFW Mystrade ficlets, all themed around soft sex and touch. Oodles of romance with zero angst to get in the way.





	1. Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Mycroft's casual sex arrangement is becoming rather cosy.

[20:21] How are you? MH

[20:24] hey :) I'm good. bit of a mad week. how are you? G x

[20:25] I'm well. Also a busy week. MH

[20:28] up to much tonight? :) G x

[20:29] No, I'm unoccupied this evening. MH   
[20:30] Are you occupied? MH

[20:31] nope... I can be though ;) G x

 

* * *

 

Easy - slow. 

The truth is that Mycroft's exhausted after this week, and he needs easy and slow.

Greg settles him on his stomach in bed. The lights are out, their phones are switched to silent, and nobody will be disturbing them until morning. He rubs Mycroft's back for a while, kissing the side of his neck, then gently parts his thighs. 

Firm fingers, patient. Greg uses the lubricant he knows is kept in the bedside; Mycroft sourced it after the third time they did this. It's warming, silicon, specially for sex without condoms. Mycroft only ever uses it with Greg. 

When he's ready, he moans and lifts his hips - but Greg keeps fingering him gently for a few minutes more, working the oil deeper into his body. It's strangely comforting. Mycroft squeezes the pillow in his hands, enjoying it, relaxing into Greg's careful massage of his prostate. He's desperate by the time Greg slides his fingers free. They've done this for almost four months now, and the stretch of Greg's cock feels familiar and thick and satisfying. It stops Mycroft thinking; it melts his mind into nothing.

Greg's body settles comfortably on top of his. He nuzzles into the back of Mycroft's neck as they take a minute to adjust, panting together, remembering.

"Okay, gorgeous?" he murmurs. 

Mycroft's heart contracts tightly.  _ Gorgeous.  _ He manages to whisper his assent, and Greg starts to move in him - slow, deep and steady, over and over and over.

It's perfect.

Mycroft doesn't know how he coped without this - what he did before Greg was only a text away. He can't remember what his life was like without sex and comfort and company at the end of a terrible week, and he doesn't want to remember. Greg knows his body now. He knows the rhythm that makes Mycroft writhe within minutes; he knows that Mycroft doesn't want to come the first time he gets close. He likes to be edged and cooled and coaxed. 

And Greg has gotten good at it.

It's almost eleven when Greg finally turns Mycroft over onto his back. They like to come this way - they can kiss. Mycroft crosses his ankles over the back of Greg's thighs, pulls the man down to his mouth and moans from the depths of his throat as Greg picks up the pace. Their tongues flash together; Mycroft's entire body trembles as Greg pounds his prostate. Nothing in the world should feel this good. The week and all its problems are gone. There's just Greg, his mouth, his cock, the firm and familiar planes of body, the sheets and the lamplight and the tantalising sounds of sex. Greg's moans are low and raw. He huffs Mycroft's name often - fragments of it - pants them, breathes them, groans them, like it feels good just to say. Mycroft curls the fingers of one hand tightly in Greg's hair; he lets the other descend his magnificent body, grasping at his lower back, pulling in urgent hope of harder.

Four months of this arrangement, and reaching climax together is magnificent. Greg buries himself deep; Mycroft curls around him. Their moans melt and blur and their bodies shake, and through it all Mycroft can feel Greg gripping onto him, holding onto him tightly as he writhes. Orgasm with Greg inside him is a glorious ache; the relief is indescribable. It leaves Mycroft panting, every inch of his skin searing, his heart pounding itself apart.

They shower together, afterwards - kissing, touching and talking softly - a little laughter shared beneath the spray. Eased and at peace, Mycroft finds himself almost at one with the world. Greg is familiar enough with the house to make tea, and he brings two large mugs of it to the bedroom, slipping back beneath the sheets with a grin.

As they kiss, their bare bodies close, and their mouths slowly stroking with satisfaction, it occurs to Mycroft that this is all becoming rather comfortable. 

It's always been easy between them - professional men with busy lives, old enough and secure enough to be honest with each other. Greg is generous with his body and his touch. He doesn't seem to tire Mycroft the way that other people do. He brings relief, not weariness; in his company, Mycroft can rest.

It's rare.

It's... pleasant.

And Mycroft is almost,  _ almost _ starting to wonder.

 


	2. Discover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's first experience of intimacy with Greg.

Mycroft doesn't know what he's doing. It scares him, but the hands and the voice are gentle, the sheets are cool and the lights are off. Gregory's flat smells of him. His bed is old, somehow still supportive, and within its easy warmth it seems safe for Mycroft to fill the quiet with his sounds. The mouth at his neck makes him pant. The weight of another man's body transpires to feel comforting, and from somewhere outside the covers there comes a substance that feels slick and slippery and good around his cock, and the intimate grinding of their erections through the wetness has an animalism to it that takes his breath. He isn't certain if this is how sex between men usually occurs -  _does this count?_ flashes wildly through his mind, even as he moans and arches and pulls Gregory closer for more - more skin - so much skin, so good - but this seems just to be rubbing.   
It doesn't matter.  
  
It feels good.   
  
He's waited a lifetime to discover why people do this. He didn't care to find out until the first time Gregory kissed him - eased across Mycroft's couch to him one evening, cupped his face and kissed him - the warm play of their lips, the taste of someone else's mouth, the hitch of Gregory's breath that said he wanted more, the wrap of his arms, the broadness of his chest, the touch of smoke in his scent - and since that night, Mycroft's been able to think of little else. It's led them here, and he doesn't want to stop.  
  
Gregory's shoulders are now solid and warm beneath his hands. The voice at his neck calls him  _"darlin'",_ asks softly if he's close. He doesn't know. He tries to say it, but ends up whimpering it. Gregory's erection sliding slow and firm against his own seems to be short-circuiting his brain, burning through his higher functions as if they're dry paper, leaving him with only the pleasure and the panting and the pounding of his heart, and he finds he doesn't care.  _Oh god, so much skin._  Gregory's restless sounds ripple deliciously through his soul - quiet groans and intakes of breath - rutting together slowly, shivering, and some wild longing urges Mycroft to part his legs. Nervously he submits to it, and wraps his calves around Gregory's thighs. The angle shifts; their bodies draw closer. The pleasure blooms. Gregory begins to breathe hard, nuzzling into his neck, and the gentle restless biting makes Mycroft's hands and thighs clench.  _I like that. I like that, I like that._  He realises with a jolt to the heart that, in his fragility, the words rushed their way from his mouth. Gregory chooses some soft place, licks and softens it with warm strokes of his tongue, then tenderly digs his teeth into the skin. As Mycroft cries out, panting, writhing around the sensation and gripping Gregory with his thighs, the molten slide of their erections suddenly sharpens and tightens and ruptures, and he realises he's coming, breaking into orgasm with a lover biting at his neck - and the release aches through him like a groan from the soul. He falls away into the feeling, gasping. He lets it burn him away.  
  
When sense finally flutters in the dazed wreckage of his thoughts, Mycroft becomes aware of new wetness between their chests. Gregory's panting against his neck, sated - a little sweat on his shoulders - there's a new ease to his weight. Something seems to have wrapped them both together. Mycroft could no sooner let him go in this moment than suddenly levitate or turn the bed into clouds.  
  
Gregory shivers. He swallows, his breath rough - and when he speaks, his voice is low and warm and as glorious as anything Mycroft has ever heard.  
  
"Was that okay, darlin'?" he rumbles.  
  
 _Yes,_ Mycroft's heart whispers in the chaos.  _Yes. Yes._  
  
As he feels Gregory smile against his neck, he realises that his mouth is still directly linked with his brain.  
  
"Good..." Gregory murmurs, stirs, and kisses the bitemark he's left. "Mhm. Stay 'til morning. Want to show you some more."  
  
Mycroft's heart seems to breathe in.  
  
"Show me," he whispers, winding his fingers through Greg's hair.

 


	3. Gaze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft summons Greg to The Diogenes for 'assistance'.

The smile is barely there, so small Greg can’t be sure he’s really seeing it.

He watches Mycroft’s pale fingertips rub together - lazy in the air, almost predatory - and tries not to stare at the two inches of socked ankle revealed by the casual shift in position.

“Not in this instance,” the politician says, and reaches for a glass of something small and dark to his side. “You can relax, detective inspector.”

Greg thinks he’ll stick to hovering and panicking, thanks.

“If it’s not a Sherlock problem, then… what is it?” he says.

Mycroft takes a slow drink, watching him over the rim of the glass.

His eyes are shark-skin grey.

Greg can’t really cope with that.

He’s never been able to cope with it - not since the first night they met. Some warehouse in Peckham. Kidnapped off the street by the poshest man on the planet, and sleekly interrogated as to his intentions towards Sherlock Holmes… all while trying to hide a raging hard-on. Greg’s sexuality sometimes feels as if someone cobbled it together out of leftover scraps from other people. He’s like a tin of Christmas chocolates, full of odds and ends: manipulative types he knows will hurt him; cuffs, commands, praise; people in dark formalwear; people who speak like they mean every word and expect him to listen; clever sorts who peer at him over their reading glasses; powerful men who make his clothes feel transparent.

Mycroft Holmes is the crowning glory of it all.

They say he’s smarter than Sherlock. He sees the same things that Sherlock sees - the loose thread that announces someone is lying, the dot of ink on a cuff that spills every secret. He can sweep his eyes across a person, and it’s all there for him to read.

And if it’s true, then Mycroft Holmes knows exactly what effect he has on Greg.

He knows Greg will leave here a flaming mess as usual, head back to his lonely flat and try to settle himself with horlicks and the TV. He knows Greg will last maybe twenty minutes before giving up, going to bed and getting lube out of the drawer. He knows that by ten o'clock, Greg will be fucking himself with his fingers until he can’t stay quiet about it, imagining that voice crisp and sleek in his ear, calling him  _detective inspector,_ telling him to make all the noise he needs, telling him he’s doing beautifully.

Mycroft can probably see it all.

The posh bastard still makes him come and stand here - his private room of his private club. Greg’s pretty sure it means that, on some level, Mycroft likes it. 

Not enough to  _do_  anything about it, of course. That would ruin the fun. The arrogant arsehole just gets off on knowing that he could.

And that makes it so much worse.

Placing his drink aside, Mycroft Holmes runs his tongue briefly across his lower lip - cleaning up the taste of his liquor - then says,

“You’ve always been helpful to me in wrangling my insufferable little brother… I’ve come to appreciate your discretion very much, Lestrade. I hoped I could request your assistance with another private matter.”

He’s killing Greg - the way he speaks. All those long and lazy words, nearly purred; that intimate glimpse of dark grey sock; the creases of his slim-cut trousers, the sharpness of his eyes, the ease of his fingers now resting on the arm of the chair.

It’s not okay, and it’s not fair.

Greg needs it more than he needs to breathe.

“Sure,” he says, as casually as he can. “M’always happy to help… what do you want?”

Mycroft takes another drink.

“Lock the door,” he says, and puts the glass aside. “Take your clothes off, lie down on the rug - and don’t come until I give you permission.”

In one quick motion he throws something from out of his sleeve.

Greg catches it, shocked. He looks down.

It takes him a second to realise it’s high-end lube.

“I suggest you keep your tie to hand,” Mycroft adds, settling comfortably back in his chair. “You strike me as the loud type, and these walls are fairly thin.”

The corner of his mouth curls - and that’s  _definitely_  a smile.

“Make it pretty for me, Lestrade,” he murmurs. “I might let you finish me on your knees.”

Greg can’t move. He can’t speak. 

He can’t even think. 

He can only stare, now certain this is a dream.

Mycroft raises a wry eyebrow. “You’re not dreaming, detective inspector… merely boring me. Now relax, for god’s sake. Kindly strip.”

He picks up his glass, his eyes gleaming. “And take it slow.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ficlet has now been expanded into [8500 words of glorious smut](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15051542) by my magnificent friend Davi. Don't miss it. <3


	4. Shower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lazy weekend shower sex.

Sunday afternoon. Greg slips into the shower with him after their jog, turning in his hand the bottle of silicon lube.   
  
The tiles are cold and thrilling as he presses Mycroft up against them, cheek and chest and cock, hot and sensitive skin flushing against the coolness of ceramic. Greg gently bends and lifts one of Mycroft's knees, supporting it with his hand. As he coaxes inside Mycroft, taking his time, he bites at Mycroft's neck - soft, slow digging bites, eating at him, marking him. Mycroft moans and begs, but his husband makes him wait.   
  
As Greg begins to move inside him, Mycroft can only pull his lip between his teeth and breathe. There's no friction to rub against - no relief. There's just Greg's body, the slick stretch of his heavy cock, and his open-mouthed kisses over the back of Mycroft's neck. His roughened groans are heaven. When Greg's close, he slides his wet hands over Mycroft's stomach and makes him arch for it, makes him plead for it, finally wrapping Mycroft's rock-hard erection with a tight fist and fucking him through it.   
  
Mycroft comes so hard he can't even make sound - just stretch, arch against the wall, and rut back in urgency upon his husband's cock.   
  
Afterwards, wrapped up in white towels on the bed, Greg strokes his hair and murmurs he'll make dinner. Something special.   
  
It's their day, after all. It's Sunday.   
  
And on Sundays, Mycroft can have whatever he wants.

 


	5. Slow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rainy evening in bed prompts a tender confession.

Storms have rolled across the country all weekend. Frankly, it's been bloody bleak. Even carrying his groceries from the supermarket to the car this morning, Greg got soaked to the skin. He spent the rest of his Sunday watching crap TV and eating ginger snaps, slumped on the couch in his dressing gown and his thickest pair of socks. 

The relentless rattle of the rain has left him feeling like the weekend never really started. He'll be back at his desk in the morning as if he never got up from it.

Darkness then falls, bringing fresh sheets of rain - and a visitor.

Mycroft's sorry to drop by unannounced. He thought he'd be at the conference far later than this, but the weather has proven so disruptive to travel plans that a major afternoon session was cancelled. The delegates were released early. Greg had mentioned he had no plans. 

It all seemed rather fortuitous.

He's brought red wine and profiteroles, if Greg happens to have a DVD to accompany them.

They're in bed by nine, slow-fucking to the lazy patter of the rain. Mycroft's soft, laboured breaths are beautiful. He doesn't seem to want anything more tonight than Greg inside him, taking it steady and slow. Lately they've stopped using condoms. Greg's still not used to it: Mycroft's sheer heat, the tight slide of their bodies with no barrier between them, the way Mycroft whimpers to him,  _ fill me. Please.  _ They kiss as they make love, Mycroft's hands tight on his back. His freckled cheeks flush restlessly with colour; he gazes at Greg as if he's a miracle.

Greg didn't realise he loved the rain until now.

It's soothing. It makes him feel like they could rock this way all night, sharing this slow pleasure, gently kissing as the rain hushes against the windows. Mycroft has never seemed so relaxed and so content beneath him. His moans are gentle and shaky; he trembles as Greg nuzzles into his neck. 

"Good, love?" Greg whispers. He feels Mycroft's throat muscles thicken around a sigh.

"G-Good... oh, god... good..."

"Mm hmm?" Greg leans down, brushing a slow stripe with his tongue across Mycroft's heart. "Anything you want me to change? Anything you need?"

"Don't change... please, don't change..."

"'kay, beautiful. I won't change. I'll keep on just like this for you, I promise... deep and gentle and slow..."

Mycroft's sex-fogged gaze glitters, pleasure overwhelming his expression. 

"Gregory?" he whispers.

"Mm?"

"I... I think I..." Mycroft hesitates, shaking a little as he grips Greg's shoulder. "For you. Really very strongly."

Greg's heart thumps. He feels the realisation catch in his throat; it floods him with sudden warmth. "Yeah?"

He watches nerves tighten Mycroft's face. "I - I hope that's - "

Greg reaches for his lips at once, kissing him deeply and slowly. He eases the motions of his hips just to rest inside Mycroft, wrapped together as they kiss. Their mouths stroke and soothe; the rain rumbles on.

"Me too," he whispers, as they part. "More and more all the time. Don't remember how I coped before we had this."

Mycroft seems to shiver all over; his fingers wind through Greg's hair, listening in rapture to the words.

"M'glad you came round," Greg murmurs against his mouth. He gazes down into Mycroft's eyes, his heart heaving as he sees them shine. "Stay 'til morning, won't you? Don't go off into the rain."

"Of course..." Mycroft shivers again, brushing a hopeful kiss across his lips. "May we...? I-I'm... I'm enjoying - "

Greg grins; he rubs their noses together. "Mmhm. Just like we were?"

"Yes... god, yes..."

"'kay, sweetheart. Lie back and let me love you."

 


	6. Journal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft keeps a journal; tonight it contains an important memory.

The habit has endured for a lifetime. This evening is the closest Mycroft has ever come to breaking it, unsure if he would find the time. Usually the final hours of each day are spent in his own company, working until he’s at risk of committing errors then writing quietly in bed by the glow of his lamp - but today, for the first time in his life, these final hours haven’t been spent alone.

It’s now close to midnight. His company kisses his temple, brushes back his ruffled hair and gives him a reassuring smile, promising in a murmur to return in just a few minutes. “Don’t go anywhere,” he teases, and Mycroft’s heart squeezes in response. They share a soft kiss. “Won’t be long.”

Mycroft waits until the bathroom door has closed. 

He then eases open the top drawer of his bedside table, slides the journal out with care, and uncaps the silver fountain pen he keeps with it.

Something about doing this naked in a stolen moment leaves him feeling deeply and desperately honest. His hair is a mess, his skin still covered in kisses. There is stubble burn on his inner thighs. His lover is only feet away through a wall, and the two of them are now spent, sated, settling down to sleep through the night in the same bed.

He writes quietly, his heartbeat quick and happy. The pen nib scuffs across the paper, curiously audible tonight. He’s never noticed it before.

_With Gregory._

_As gentle and patient as I’d hoped. Even more so._

Mycroft hesitates, gazing down at the thick cream paper. The memory of the closeness they just shared brings him courage. He smiles as he commits this happy truth to the record of his life, glad to his soul.

_Unsure how I’ll bring myself to let him go in the morning._

Hearing water hiss gently through the pipes, he caps the pen and returns his journal to the drawer. Tomorrow, when Gregory has left him, he’ll finish the entry. It gives him the full night to decide which additional details to give - which specific aspects should be laid down for recollection in the future and which moments should stay purely private between two lovers.

As Mycroft settles down beneath his sheets, enjoying the feel of a smile upon his lips, he realises that by morning there might even be additional memories to discreetly leave out of his journal.

His pulse patters at the thought.

 


	7. Sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft catches Greg eating ice cream in the middle of the night.

The counter-top is flat, cold and featureless; there’s nowhere for Greg to grip as Mycroft pushes inside him. His hands grasp for purchase at nothing. All he can do is pant and arch and take, moaning his pleas in the very back of his throat, cock pinned beneath him against the marble.

Mycroft’s control is absolute: one hand firm between Greg’s shoulder blades, keeping him down; the other gently twisted in his hair.

“Are you quite sorry yet?” Mycroft murmurs as he starts to move - deep, slow thrusts that blitz Greg’s senses into nothing. He shuts his eyes tight and breathes out against the marble. It shouldn’t feel this good to be punished.

“Y-Yes. M'sorry, baby. I’ll buy you more.”

“If there is to be secretive consumption of ice cream in the small hours, Gregory, I expect to be included in it.”

_Oh, fuck._  “H-Harder, My - please - ”

“I’ll decide ‘harder’, thank you…” Mycroft’s fingers close around a new handful of his hair. They pull gently, forcing Greg to lift his head, and their reflection faces him in the window above the sink - submissive, panting, pinned to the counter as his lover in an open dressing gown fucks him slowly. Mycroft meets his eyes in the glass. “You forfeited your authority in this situation the very  _moment_  you removed that lid, Gregory Lestrade. Hot weather is no excuse for theft.”

_“C-Christ - ”_

“I imagine a marble work top is in fact rather cooling for you.” Mycroft’s voice is beginning to lose something of its clean erudition; a roughness builds at the edge of his breath. "You should be appreciative, sweet…" 

As he leans over Greg, resting his weight on his lover’s back, the slight shift of angle brings his thrusts closer to Greg’s prostate. Greg moans it out against the counter-top, twisting, swearing under his breath. The rhythmic slam of Mycroft’s thighs against the back of his own crowds every thought from his head; his body aches. He needs this. He needs it like he needs his heart to beat.

He enjoys it so much more when he knows that he’s earned it.

He could have had the ice cream last week when Mycroft was in Asia. He could have eaten it, replaced it and texted a fond apology - but there’s no fun in that. 

He was hard before he’d even slipped out of bed tonight, knowing where his quiet creeping down to the kitchen would lead.

He’ll be hard next time he texts Mycroft a lip-bite selfie, when he knows very well that Mycroft’s in a meeting; he’ll be hard next time he looks too long at Mycroft in the presence of Sherlock. He’ll be hard when he chooses a tight pair of jeans for the next work night out, and he’ll be hard knowing Mycroft’s watching him every step of the way on CCTV.

And when the punishment’s this good, he doesn’t think he’ll be sorry.

As Mycroft’s driving thrusts begin to slow inside him, Greg pants and cranes his head back over his shoulder. He watches, wide-eyed, as his partner reaches for something on the other counter.

It’s the half-eaten tub of ice cream - Mycroft’s precious salted caramel.  _The evidence of my crime,_ Greg thinks, and stirs as Mycroft places it beside him on the counter. He watches, his heart thumping, as Mycroft dips his fingers into the tub.

The ice cream inside has now melted into gloop. It drips wetly from Mycroft’s long and elegant fingers, coating his perfect pale skin in mess as he brings them to Greg’s mouth.

Greg opens, takes Mycroft’s fingers in and cleans them thoroughly, closing his eyes with longing. He works his very hardest to do a good job. He coils his tongue beneath Mycroft’s fingertips and flicks at them eagerly, the same way he’d do to his lover’s frenulum, searching out every last flutter of taste. He likes having something to suck on when he’s taken like this - and Mycroft knows it. Greg’s soft, contented groans hitch with each insistent slam of Mycroft’s cock; he can feel himself throbbing beneath his stomach.

When he’s finished cleaning, more ice cream is scooped from the tub and given to Greg. He licks it away obediently, lapping it up in an effort to prove his remorse for his actions.

Mycroft hums a half-pleased note. He leans down, pulling Greg up at the same time; Greg breathes in hard.

His lover murmurs in his ear.

“You’ll want to come, will you?”

Greg nods as best he can with a mouthful of Mycroft’s fingers. 

“A shame,” Mycroft remarks, “that you’ve already indulged yourself tonight. I’m not sure a reward for your behaviour would be fitting. It seems you’ll have to learn some restraint, dear heart.”

Greg groans, high-pitched, licking desperately at his lover’s fingers.

“You think so, do you?” Mycroft murmurs. “Well, perhaps when I’m satisfied, I might find it in me to relieve you… or perhaps not. We shall see how regretful you seem by then.” 

As Mycroft’s teeth graze across his shoulder, Greg whines. 

“Fortunately, my darling… you needn’t worry about such things for a while… four years of your mischievous defiance has at least imbued me with excellent self-control. And if you’re permitted to indulge in the small hours, so am I.”

Greg trembles, bucking back against his lover’s hips for more. As Mycroft’s fingers withdraw from his mouth, he swallows weakly around them. “L-Love you.”

“Mm?” Mycroft reaches to the ice cream tub, swirling his fingers through it. “Ask nicely.”

“Please.” Greg gasps it, flushing. “Please, My. I love you. Please.”

As Mycroft’s fingers slide back inside his mouth, feeding him the melted cream and caramel and salt, his thrusts deepen into Greg’s body. Greg arches his back, arches his neck, arches his fingers against the flat expanse of counter-top and moans. 

“There,” Mycroft whispers in his ear. “Good. I love you too, beast. And if you lay a finger on my Green & Black’s again, I expect you to be applying it generously to my cock - with a view to cleaning it off me immediately. Are we quite clear?”

Greg nods, panting.

“Splendid.” Mycroft kisses his shoulder, slips his fingers from Greg’s mouth, and pins him down against the counter-top once more. “Now moan for me like you mean it,” he sighs, taking fresh hold of Greg’s hair. “I want the neighbours to know that you’re sorry.”

 


	8. Honeymoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Greg share a bath during their island honeymoon.

Upon waking, Mycroft's fingers search through the cool cotton sheets beside him. He finds them disappointingly empty; a blurry glance at the bedside clock tells him it is nearly three PM. 

They've been on Rangali Island for eight days now. Certain indulgences have become habit - a lazy afternoon nap together naked, passing the hottest part of the day in the shade of their air-conditioned suite. The mammal comfort of his new husband's toned body nestled close against his own is a sensation like no other. Lazy afternoon sex to follow has become habit as well - a habit Mycroft isn't inclined to break.

Stirring, he lifts his head from the pillow and looks around their bedroom. The door to their en suite is open. As he listens, the quiet sound of trickling water makes him smile.

He eases out of bed, taking a dressing robe from a nearby chair as a mere nod to propriety. He drapes it open around his shoulders, quite hoping it shan't be on for long, and slips through the door into their private bathroom.

In the bathing area, the longest wall comprises uninterrupted glass with an unbroken view of the Indian ocean. A few clouds trail distantly across the cerulean waters; nothing spoils the horizon.

The view comes second only to a much closer and far more evocative sight. 

Mycroft's husband of nine days is lying in the bath, wet-chested and wet-haired, smiling in greeting with heavy-lidded eyes. 

As he watches Mycroft come closer, Greg's gaze takes on the glitter of the ocean waves behind him. His easy grin stirs a heat in Mycroft's stomach which immediately craves release. The dressing robe pools beside the bath as it is shed, discarded without a thought.

Mycroft climbs into the water as gracefully as he's able and slides close to lie against his husband's chest. Greg's hands soothe around him, deliciously possessive and fond; they settle him with long and loving strokes, up and down his back. 

"Hey, darlin'," his new husband murmurs, tenderly kissing his forehead. 

Mycroft's heart strains gently in his chest. 

"Hello..." he whispers, as Greg's fingers skim between his thighs. He bites into his lip, unashamed of the soft moan which escapes him; his husband's gentle chuckle lifts the hair on the back of his neck.

"Love when you wake up horny," Greg breathes, easing Mycroft to lie closer to him, cock-to-cock as their mouths softly meet. "C'mere."

For the longest time, it feels like merely teasing - rocking together beneath the water, kissing without pause, slowly sweeping each other's bodies with the lightest strokes of their fingertips. Even as he grows almost breathlessly aroused, aching at the sensation of Greg's erection sliding firm against his own, Mycroft finds himself enraptured by this purposeful drawing-out - neither moving to advance to anything more decisive, neither progressing this encounter, simply bathing each other in the sensation of being wanted.  _ Having _ will break the spell;  _ needing _ feels so good.

Greg's hands begin to flex at his waist with each deep and desperate flash of their tongues. He's drinking Mycroft's feathered moans, shivering and breathing them back to him. At last he parts their ardent kiss to murmur against Mycroft's mouth, "That's it, baby... that's perfect... you're doing beautifully for me..." His hand wraps lazily around them both beneath the surface. 

After that, Greg barely needs to move - just hold them together, let Mycroft slide against him, let Mycroft do the work, and the glittering looking of need which comes over his gaze is unfathomably beautiful. He breathes hard as their frenulums nuzzle, over and over; he bites into his lip. 

Mycroft simply gazes, adoring him. 

When he comes, Greg shivers and arches beneath Mycroft in the water, letting out a ragged moan of need. Mycroft pants, kissing him in desperation; the urgent pulse of Greg's cock wrapped up against his own drags him into his climax too. They gasp together gently as they crest, then nuzzle as they tremble into aftershocks.

"Marry me," Greg breathes, cupping Mycroft's jaw. He pulls Mycroft him close. "Marry me this fucking instant."

Mycroft's heart heaves. "I-I believe I did, darling. In some splendour."

"Marry me again. Right now."

"Greg..." It's impossible to sound controlled in this moment; it's impossible not to kiss Greg, hold him, cradle his face in both hands. "Darling, I love you. I love you so very much."

Greg smiles against his lips. Mycroft feels it; shivers cascade down his back in response. Beneath him his husband stretches, reaching out with one foot to nudge on the hot tap.

"Can we come back here next year?" he murmurs, curling a finger beneath Mycroft's chin. He dots Mycroft's mouth with gentle kisses between words. "Anniversary. Or Christmas, maybe... just you and me, like it should be."

"Yes," Mycroft whispers. The whole world seems to shine with light. "Yes, darling, of course we can. Anything you wish."

"Mmhm..." Greg reaches out a hand for their shower oil. "Perfect." 

 


	9. Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft falls in love with Greg to music.

Love comes in with the music.

There was never music before - empty silent rooms in an empty silent house, an empty silent life where his solitude was worn like armour and other people let him down without fail. He told himself the appreciation of pure quiet was a mark of character, discipline; he told himself he had a higher kind of mind.

Then Greg came, and Greg brought the music.

Car trips, long roads and the radio, the horizon wide open and the music loud and bright; midweek dinners made as classic love songs play, Greg’s shirt-sleeves rolled and no tie, singing in the kitchen in his socks; nights so deep and desperate they go on forever, Greg’s phone by the bed, the grip of their hands in the dark. The songs which play at night are slow, swirling somewhere in the back of Mycroft’s brain. They teach his heart how to beat in these fragile moments. _Open,_ they murmur to him. _Connect. Be his. It’s alright._

Let him close.

Close becomes so easy. Certain songs grow familiar along with Greg’s hands and the months ease by with the music. Just the echo of certain melodies in his memory becomes enough to heat Mycroft’s blood, soothe all his fears into shadow and curve his mouth with a quiet smile, regardless of where he is or what he's doing. He doesn’t know the artists; he doesn’t know half the lyrics. Words matter very little when there’s music and there’s Greg.

One night, making love, he finds himself suddenly aware of every fragment of the moment - Greg’s lap, Greg’s scent, Greg’s arm around his waist. His fingers are buried in Greg’s hair; Greg’s mouth is at his neck. Greg’s pulse and his own are speaking to each other, kissing where their chests connect, and the music flows through his every vein and nerve. The words make such sense it takes his breath. It feels like hearing a language he'd forgotten he could speak.

And he realises it’s love, and it’s going to last.

And it will always be alright.

 

_Come, come see about me_  
_Come, come see about me_  
_Know it can’t always be about me_  
_Just come, come see about me_

_Come, come see about me_  
_I’m doing good, boy,_  
_I’m up where we belong, yeah,_  
_You know I’m still tryna_  
_Find where we went wrong, yeah,_  
_So come, come see about me_

_Come, come see about me_  
_Come, come, come see about me_  
_Won’t hurt just to see what we could be_  
_So come see about me…_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the Nicki Minaj track 'Come See About Me'.


	10. Quiet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Young Mystrade. During their first time, Greg discovers that Mycroft is quiet during sex. (Greg POV.)

The first time we're together, he's quiet. I worry at first I'm not doing it right - worry that I've gone too fast and hurt him - but he wants to kiss me, and his hips rock slowly up in time to meet me, and when I whisper to him he shivers and promises me he's okay, brushing his shaking fingers through my hair. The look on his face as I move in him is my reassurance. His eyes are soft, his expression tight, auburn curls ruffling as they dry against my pillows. His pink blush is sugar-shy and beautiful; it's deepening with every minute, even if he's quiet. 

I take it a little faster, just as gentle, and he releases a long breath against my neck. It sends shivers scattering across my shoulders and my bare back, tingling beneath the tight hug of the sheet around us. The moan he gives me is tiny, barely there, but as I watch him pleasure flushes across his face. He holds onto my back, his fingers trembling on my tattoo, and bites his lip when I nuzzle inside him again. He shakes; his breathing thickens. I can hear the bed shifting beneath us - pillows, sheets, slow.

Watching him, I realise he's quiet because he likes it.

He's shy, self-conscious - my gorgeous Myc - but he likes the quiet. He's concentrating. He likes the gentle afternoon gloom, likes the peace, likes the safety of my locked bedroom door and the closed curtains, all my housemates out, and this is the quiet of the first time. He's just breathing for me, soft, focused on feeling it. Just gentle panting.

Gazing at me.

That pretty pink blush. 

I murmur to him, stroking his cheek - does he want me to go slower? Harder? 

He trembles and whimpers that he just wants this. 

"Don't change," he begs. He wraps his legs around me slowly, whispering, "Don't change - don't stop..."

The shift in angle slides me another gentle half an inch into his body; his fingernails dig into my tattoo. His features wrack with longing. As I concentrate, rocking there over and over, his breathing escalates and he bites into his lip again, his body twisting a little, his eyes shutting tight. 

A few more long minutes of slow and easy; every muscle in my back is tense with focus. He's warm inside and he's tight, tighter than those girlfriends whose faces I've suddenly lost in a gale, and the desperate soft panting is slowly killing me. He feels so good I want to fall apart.

"Greg..." he whimpers at last, almost anxious, pulling me down to his neck. He's shaking hard. He wants me to kiss him there - he needs this familiar feeling to guide him through. 

As I'm biting gently at his neck, feeling his body contract with enjoyment around me, I reach for the hand that's not gripping at my back. I loosen it from the bedsheets. 

I pull it over to his cock, wrapping his fingers around himself. 

"Like this," I whisper, bracing up on my forearms to give him the room. "Touch yourself, darlin'... how you like..."

Heat blooms in his cheeks, but he's too far gone to resist. He looks down between us, panting still, watching in desperation as he pushes in and out of his own tight fist, as my cock keeps filling him over and over. He's still barely making a sound, and it's working for me so much I can't cope. I watch enjoyment rising in his beautiful face as he pulls at his cock, whitening his own lip between his teeth, gazing at me with those fragile grey eyes full of need, full of anxiety, full of pleasure, and I realise he's watching me too - getting off on what this is doing to me - and it's enough to destroy me. I can't hold on. For just a few seconds I push into him harder, faster, swearing softly and his nails rake down my tattoo in desperation as I fuck him, his whole body convulsing with pleasure, and his teeth dig into my shoulder, and I realise he's coming underneath me - writhing in silence and spattering between us, breathing high-pitched and hard as he bites into my shoulder to stifle his sounds. It's over for me in seconds. I push my face into his neck and bury myself in him, moaning - loud - can't help it - moaning out my release and panting, shaking, feeling his pulse thundering against my cheek.

As my brain reboots, there's a moment of panic. He's silent underneath me, lying totally still.

Then his arms tighten around me, and his fingers rake through my hair - and as we shake together, our hearts still pounding, he strokes his lips across my ear.

"Oh, god..." he whimpers. His hands twitch gently - one buried in my hair, the other grasping my arse to hold me in him. I don't remember when he moved. I remember it there as I came, gripping me. "Oh,  _ god..." _

I nuzzle behind his ear, breathless. "Y-You okay, gorgeous?"

His shudder lights me up inside. 

"Yes..." He squeezes me with his thighs. The breath he lets out against my shoulder is the most beautiful thing I've ever heard. "Y-Yes... oh, god... that was wonderful..."

I grin into his neck. "Mmhm...? Good..." As I lean up to kiss him, I brush my nose against his. "Wonderful for me, too..."

 


	11. Easy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waking up at the weekend with Greg is always easy.

Mycroft wakes to his lover’s mouth at the side of his neck, and the nuzzle of an erection at his tailbone. His first sound of the day is a low, breathless moan; his first thought is still some time away.

There’ll be no thinking yet.

There’ll just be hands, coaxing down the front of his body; thick fingers persuading their way between his thighs; the gentle biting at his neck that makes him gasp without fail. There’ll be his husband’s breath, soft and rough in his ear, and the stroke of his wicked tongue in the hollow just behind - then the murmured command, “All fours for me, gorgeous…”

It will unfold into stroking up and down his bare back - lazy, loving hands that guide him to rock back and meet each slick thrust as it comes. There’ll be whispered praise, telling him he’s doing so well. There’ll be panting, arching and whimpering with need, and begging from low in his throat as Greg fucks him too slowly to come, too deeply to cope; but there’ll be no relief until his husband says. There’ll just be the two of them, and what they can make each other feel.

They might be out of bed by ten. They might still be in bed at three.

Mycroft doesn’t care.

He’ll think about it later.


	12. Knees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 221B ficlet. Mycroft does certain things well, and he looks good while he does them.

_ Only I get this.  _ Greg slides his fingers gently beneath Mycroft's jaw, unable to look away from the intense grey gaze turned up towards him.  _ Nobody else. Just me. _

Mycroft hums low in his throat, idling the flat of his tongue from root to tip.

He knows exactly how good he looks doing this. He clearly realises that most of Greg's enjoyment comes purely from getting to watch this, from witnessing the sight of the elegant and erudite Mycroft Holmes on his knees, gorgeously over-dressed and gazing upwards, his eyes soft with submission as Greg's cock eases in and out of his pinkened mouth. He looks utterly perfect with his hair mussed, his collar loosened, his slender hands resting lightly at Greg's hip-bones. 

He'll look good with Greg's come streaked from his mouth to his jaw. 

He'll look good sprawled on his couch as Greg returns the favour, moaning tightly and gripping Greg's hair; he'll look good as they kiss goodbye against his closed office door.

He'll look good tonight at seven, when Greg picks him up for dinner.

As he takes Greg's cock slowly between his lips, Mycroft's little sound of satisfaction tightens Greg's balls. He pants, watching Mycroft sink, surrounding as much as he can. 

His eyes don't leave Greg's for a second. 

Greg groans, weak.

_ You beautiful bastard. _

 


	13. Waited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's POV of his first time with Greg.

"Greg…"

Shivering, stirring, and his strong arms wrap around my waist - protecting me - supporting me - easing my every movement.

"Oh, God…  _Greg..."_

Inside me, and he's kissing me - soothing me with the warm meld of our mouths, the lower meld of our bodies - soft, sliding and slow, connecting with me so gently that I want to weep. My thighs are shaking. I can barely think.

This is the first time - the precious first time - and he holds me on his lap as if I'm his entire world.

I have never felt so vulnerable; I've never felt so safe.

He's warm, and he is gentle. He is patient. He is mine. He smells evocatively, deliciously male, and it makes me feel drunken and wonderful. With one hand he gently grips the pad of my arse, digging his fingers a little into the flesh there - wanting me, pulling me down slowly onto his cock, over and over. He longs for me, but he's letting me have control - this first time - knowing how keenly I've been plagued by nerves, knowing how long it has been. He's letting me rock upon him - letting me take from him only what I want. My right hand is braced behind me on his thigh, my left is threaded in his hair, and I'm safe on his lap. He feels like heaven inside me. Thick in me, hard for me. Enjoying this. Enjoying this moment we have waited for - long weeks of candlelight, long weeks of gentle goodnight kisses on a doorstep. Now he's enjoying the feel of me slowly riding him, and my entire body is quivering with every stroke. As I bite my lip and experiment with a little deeper, taking a little more of him inside me each time, Greg stiffens - his arms tighten around me - and he sighs, overcome.

He likes it.

My heart ignites as I realise. It feels good for him, and immediately I want more of that - more feeling for him - more pleasure for him. I want to see it wrack those beautiful, boyish features that an hour ago were gazing at me across a restaurant table, laughing at my attempts at wit, encouraging me to order a damn dessert. I want to see the pleasure my body brings him. I want to see the sensations that I'm causing him. Deeper, closer,  _more,_  and on each stroke now I'm drawing soft sounds from his mouth, and I'm drinking each one - his faint, heartfelt moans - and dear god, he feels  _sublime_ inside me. I'm full of him. Safe in his arms. Slowly riding his cock. He pads restlessly at my arse, his fingers flexing each time I ease back down. He craves me. He longs for me. He needs me.

"God," he whispers to me in the darkness, shivering. His voice is thick. "Mycroft…"

He searches my eyes, checking I am alright - as if I could be anything else in this moment.

"Feel good, love?" he murmurs. He strokes my mouth with his own.

"Y-Yes…" I whisper it for him - whisper into his kiss. He's holding me and it feels good, and this is how it feels to have sex with him - my partner - my lover - and this is only the first time. The endless, eternal first time. "It - f-feels wonderful…"

His eyes blaze - dark, soft, decadently beautiful. I realise he's watching my pleasure. He's watching each tiny flicker of my face. He's watching me take his cock, watching me enjoy the feel of him slowly stretching me and coaxing me and  _fucking_ me, and he's enjoying my enjoyment as much as his own.

And in a rush, I wonder if he knows - if he realises that he's watching me fall in love.

From the look upon his face, he knows every secret that my soul has ever kept.

And he'll help me keep them all.

"M'glad we waited," he whispers. Gently he catches my lips.

I stroke my shaking fingers through his hair, rocking on him as we kiss. I feel so full of him I can barely breathe. He feels so good that I never, ever want to stop.

I'm glad we waited, too.

 


	14. Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drabble. Greg is learning the art of patience.

Mycroft never rushes this. The fingers now curled around Greg's hips are gentle, encouraging him to rock back against the thrusting intrusion. All Greg can do is moan into his forearms, dig his teeth into the pillow when it gets too much, and try to ignore the bob of his own neglected erection in empty air.

If he's good, and takes patiently for long enough, Mycroft will begin to stroke very lightly along his sides. It's a sign Greg has done well. It means he'll be allowed to come soon.

But he'll have it when Mycroft's ready, and not until.

 


	15. Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft returns home from work to find a gift awaiting him.

_There’s a surprise upstairs for you x_

The note was pinned to the fridge by the  _Happy 50th_ magnet; all the others had been nudged aside for it to take pride of place. They formed a cheerful ring of memories around the note - souvenirs Greg had spotted in holiday gift shops; inside jokes between the two of them; soft, silly things, saying words like ’ _soulmate_ ’ and ’ _husband_ ’. 

Mycroft had never remarked upon the fridge magnets. They'd simply proliferated over the years. 

It would break his heart to pieces if they were ever gone.

He laid his briefcase and umbrella down on the kitchen table and removed the note with interest. He studied it for a while, thinking. Their notes (“ _Can you please pick up milk? I’m sorry I drank it all!! x”_ ) were usually on the torn corners of old bills or other scraps of paper found lying about the kitchen.

This one was not. 

It was specially bought notepaper - a faint leaf pattern, a single gummed edge where it had been detached from a pad. The writing was Greg’s, and done no doubt with the biro now lying on the kitchen table. It was not his usual easy scribble. Every word had been carefully looped into place, written to be read from the door. The choice of words had been contemplated at length, judging by the certainty as to where they’d been positioned on the note. They were perfectly central. The tiny crossed kiss had been placed down with utter care.

With the medium now contemplated, Mycroft turned his attention to the message.

_A surprise?_ Greg knew he wasn’t usually the type for surprises. He liked order, plans and assurances - it was Greg who adored the spontaneous and the startling.

All the same, he found himself intrigued.

He removed his coat, hung it up in the hall, and with the note held between two fingers he proceeded up the stairs. He knew his footsteps would announce his quiet approach. He didn’t trouble to mask them.

Nothing immediately seemed new. The only change from this morning was the closed bedroom door.

As he saw it, Mycroft passed his tongue quietly behind his teeth. He might not be able to deduce the exact details of the surprise, but he was starting to suspect something as to its nature.

He obediently followed the treasure trail which had been laid for him, twisted the bedroom door handle, and let himself into the room.

A pair of dark, perfect eyes lifted from the pillows to his face. 

Mycroft’s eyebrows lifted to his hairline.

“Hey…” Greg murmured. He stirred against the black velvet ties securing his wrists to the headboard, and let his head fall back to offer to Mycroft’s darkening gaze that damn near edible throat. It joined a long delectable line of bare, bronzed skin - chest, stomach, thighs and cock, all laid out for Mycroft to see - to touch. To have. 

Silent in the bedroom doorway, he watched Greg simply breathe for a moment, his lightly-haired chest rising and falling. 

“Come here?” Greg requested, soft. His toes curled a little.

Mycroft undid his tie with one hand. He slid it free from his shirt collar and dropped it with a flump to the floor.

In their afterglow, he tenderly undid the ties which had held Greg fast to the headboard - held him as he arched, as he bucked and groaned, as he hissed through his teeth that he belonged to Mycroft.

With reverence Mycroft kissed his newly-freed wrists. He stroked Greg’s fingers, honouring the pulse still fluttering for him, fast beneath the skin.

“This  _was_ a nice surprise,” he murmured, as he brushed a kiss over his husband’s palm. 

Greg grinned, his eyes dark and soft. “Love you.”

“Mmhm... I love you, too…” Mycroft strayed from his wrists, nuzzling instead into that magnificent neck. He had to ask. “How did you secure yourself to…?”

“I didn’t,” Greg said.

“Then how…?”

“I paid Sherlock fifty quid.”

“Oh - sweet lord - ”

“Worth every fucking penny.” 

 


	16. Take

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Take it, beautiful." (Greg first-person POV.)

Hush, darlin’.

Hush for me and take.

Beg me for pleasure. Beg me for relief. Let me stroke your forehead, and back into your damp curls of auburn hair - gently gripping, lifting your head. Let me have this beautiful pale neck of yours. Let me breathe into your ear as you pant.

Take it, sweetheart. Take my cock.

Feel me deep?

Your soft moans, nodding and swallowing.

Deep here? Laying my hand on your freckled stomach - pressing - just above your cock, rubbing slowly. Deep here. Deep in you. Fucking you. Feel my prick, sweetheart. Feel me in you - making you pant, making it good, making you sweat for me… my posh pretty darling on all fours for me, taking for me.

Take it, beautiful.

Stretch for me. Claw my sheets. Moan and gasp and tell me in that pretty voice that you’re full. Plead with me, sweetheart. Plead with me to stroke your cock. Plead for me to make you come. Spread your legs and arch for me and take for me, darlin’. Sweat for me. Cry it out for me, just like that.

Full of me.

Panting for me.

Days I’ve waited for you - long and restless days you’re away with work, and now you’re mine again, and you’re beautiful as you’re fucked - beautiful as you plead - beautiful as you take, as you submit for me, whimper for me, gasping a little as I ply my teeth into your freckled shoulder and hold you and drive deep in you, enjoy you, my Mycroft. Tight. Give me the heat of your body. Give me the slap of our skin. Give me your soft and urgent sounds, little whimpers and grunts. I love the sound of our sex. I love the trembling that builds in your thighs. I love the feel of wrapping my arm tight around your chest, knotting our hands over your heart, gripping you and pushing into you, feeling you shake beneath my weight as you’re coming close.

Let’s kick those moans up into whimpers, shall we, gorgeous?

Close your eyes for me and feel it - slow and hard slams - let me feel your body contract for me. I love your frantic swearing. That elegant and educated mouth of yours, gasping out each perfectly-shaped ‘fuck’. I like the way you grab for my pillows, pull one close and hold it tight, grip it, pant against it, and as I’m fucking you and you’re close and a single touch would make you come, you bite into the fabric and pant for me and screw your eyes tight shut.

And I lick your neck slowly, and hold you by the hips, and just feel you.

Mine.

All mine.

My darlin’. My sweetheart.

Now show me what I do to you, and come for me.

 


	17. Whisper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Staying over with Greg's family, Greg and Mycroft are forced to stay quiet.

Greg's sister's spare-room; Sunday morning. First light stirs in the sky outside, but there's no sound from the rest of the house.  
  
"Shhh, gorgeous... stay quiet for me…"  
  
Mycroft sinks his teeth into his lip, shaking, arching back against Greg. His fingers ache as he digs them into the pillows. He wants to moan. He wants to gasp and beg and swear like at home.  
  
"Just breathe, darlin'... breathe slow…" Greg's voice is barely a whisper, his weight comfortable and familiar on Mycroft's back. He licks the sweat from the nape of Mycroft's neck, husking against his skin. "D'you want me to help?"  
  
Mycroft nods in urgent, desperate silence, rocking back against every push.   
  
As Greg wraps an arm around him, grips his cock and starts to stroke, he chokes and writhes in his lover's hold - rutting urgently into Greg's grasp, then back against the steady fucking, panting hard and soundless. Greg's other hand skates up his heaving chest, finds one of his nipples and gently pinches, rolling between his fingertips. Mycroft's mouth opens wide in a silent cry. His body burns with it.  
  
"That's it…" Greg breathes in his ear, pleased. He works Mycroft fast and firm with his hand, fucking him steadily through it. "That's it, gorgeous... come nice and quiet for me..."  
  
 _Oh, fuck._  Mycroft feels his fingers clenching, his body contracting, his breath tightening. He feels his orgasm start to break, Greg still moving in him, still fucking him, still toying gently with his nipple and squeezing his cock, and the three assaults of pleasure are just too much. He realises he can't hold it. He scrabbles for a pillow, and gets his teeth into it just in time.  
  
Greg comes watching him muffle it. He buries deep in Mycroft's body and grips him, floods him, overwhelmed by the sight of Mycroft panting through his teeth into a pillow. Mycroft pours himself over Greg's hand, fighting his own sounds in a frenzy, wanting to scream his lover's name and sob.   
  
Greg takes a swift and silent trip along the hall, returning from the bathroom with a towel. Whispering, grinning, they kiss and clean up together. Greg's eyes shine; he's surprised Mycroft managed to keep quiet.   
  
"Don't worry, darlin'... I'll make you moan again when we're home."  
  
It's rather difficult to sit at the breakfast table an hour later, answering polite inquiries as to how they slept.

 


	18. Attentive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gregory Holmes-Lestrade is very attentive - and his husband is very lucky.

When it comes to sex with Gregory Holmes-Lestrade, actual congress forms merely one stage of a much, much longer event.

Sex always begins several hours before it begins, sometimes with an entire day of indulgent and dark-eyed flirting. Even after nearly six years of marriage, Gregory still takes a keen interest in the art of seduction. He remains very good at it; lingering looks, small kisses far too brief upon Mycroft's cheek, a quiet hand laid protectively on the small of his back as they walk together. Greg will seek him out for apparently casual conversation, sit and listen to Mycroft with a soft-eyed smile, drawing slyly closer until his cologne becomes apparent on the air. He starts by touching Mycroft's hands or his knee, casual and gentle contact made so much more intimate by the look in his eye. If Mycroft returns the touches, Greg moves closer; there comes a lengthy stage of kissing. An equally lazy progress through undressing begins, with the result that entire Sunday afternoons have sometimes vanished merely making their way to the bedroom.

Gregory's diligence, care and love of indulgence do not end at the mattress edge. 

Mycroft has never actually ascertained for how long they typically make love. He certainly means to - but whenever the opportunity arises, he always find himself with other priorities. His rational mind only ever restores itself to life when he's lying in his afterglow with Gregory, cradled against the bare warmth of his husband's chest and enjoying the tender stroking of his back.

Climax, far from calling an end to proceedings, marks the beginning of a stage of sex Mycroft finds no less enjoyable than the physical act. Gregory tends to aftercare just as closely as he tends to seduction; his interest in Mycroft wanes not one fraction after orgasm. Pillowtalk can last up to an hour, with gentle kissing and stroking throughout. If Mycroft would like a massage, he need only ask. Gregory will run him a shower or bath if he wants, and join him in it without fail, washing his hair for him, soothing the soreness of his inner thighs with warm water, the two of them laughing and giggling together like lovers half their age. Clean and dry, Gregory's mind usually turns to sustenance - food for Mycroft, a snack of some kind, or at the very least a pot of loose leaf tea, which he insists upon making and bringing to Mycroft. 

He'll then stay close to Mycroft for the remainder of the day, as generous with his company and reassurance as he is with his passion. 

Sex only ever ends when the day does, gathered together safely in the darkness of their bedroom. Gregory cups Mycroft's face, smiling into his eyes with tender awareness of the intimacy they earlier shared; he kisses Mycroft and strokes back his hair.

"G'night, darlin'," he murmurs. "I love you."

It's sometimes commented by those who know Mycroft Holmes-Lestrade that he only seems to be growing more insufferably smug as he ages.

To which the man in question can very happily respond,  _ I have good reason. _

 


	19. Sated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whenever Mycroft rides Greg, Greg's only duty is to lie back and enjoy.

Something about Mycroft riding him will always make Greg feel like a fucking emperor. 

It might be because Mycroft is so blisteringly fucking  _ good  _ at it. Whenever they do this, Greg barely needs to move. Mycroft seems to consider it a source of great pride that he doesn't. He whispers for Greg to lie back against their pillows, brushes back his hair, kisses him, murmurs to him and strokes his cock with lube until Greg is so hard he's convinced he'll soon pass out. At last he climbs on top of Greg, those gorgeous pale thighs spread wide - so soft, and all Greg's - Greg's to stroke - Greg's to hold, Greg's to grip. The sensation of Mycroft guiding his cock into position will never fail to halt Greg's breath; that slick, hot, sinking ingress through snug and intimate muscle is like no pleasure on the planet.

Mycroft doesn't rock at first. He makes gentle circles instead, deliciously slow, stimulating Greg inside him and teasing him with the lazy friction. He does this with a flushed look of pride which Greg can't bear to look away from. It can go on for what feels like hours, over and over, warm tightness easing around Greg's cock until his moans for more grow ragged and desperate - at which point he'll be slaked with what he needs. 

Mycroft never rides him fast; this is to be done slowly, properly, with unbroken eye contact and tightly-gripped hands. Any suggestion of Greg thrusting upwards is hushed and settled at once. 

Greg is to rest, while they do this. 

Greg is to enjoy.

After Greg has come, moaning in urgency and panting through gritted teeth, every muscle twisting in euphoria against the bed, Mycroft kisses and strokes him to soothe him. He runs Greg a hot shower, rubs his back under the spray and calls him 'my darling', then trembles beautifully as Greg sinks to his knees. He's always quick to come after he's ridden Greg. He likes knowing the effect that he's had; he likes seeing Greg utterly sated and boneless.

Back in bed, he'll nestle into Greg's arms with pink-cheeked pleasure as he's praised, as he's adored with gentle kisses and whispered to that he's wonderful.

There'll be texts at work the next day.  _ Hello, darling. I hope you're having an excellent morning.  _ Greg usually calls it a paperwork day, glad of the cover of his desk. Memories of Mycroft moaning softly on top of him in the darkness, moving slowly and grinding upon his cock, will always have an irrepressible effect.

There are many benefits to loving a powerful man - chief among them, when he longs for the chance to share it.

 


	20. Afterwards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The quiet, gentle moments after the very first time.

Afterwards, Greg is everything Mycroft needs him to be.

The world beyond the bed is quiet. The first light in the sky has just found its way to the curtains, and as it fills the room around them, Greg doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t speak at all - he doesn’t ask. He doesn’t joke. He doesn’t try to make this moment into anything less than it is.

He just holds Mycroft in his arms, and lets him think.

Within the silence, Mycroft finds himself reeling - quietly lost, as he tries to process the whirl of human sounds and skin they’ve just shared.

It aches.

He expected it to - researched this moment in some depth. Forums. Articles. He’d thought he’d be prepared. Various sources had warned him about the ache, and reassured him it would ease.

None of them warned that between his thighs would now feel wet - and that he would like it. Nobody warned him that having Greg moving gently inside him would feel like he was about to erupt. Nobody warned him about Greg’s fingertips, stroking - Greg’s eyes, watching him with care - Greg’s protective hands, guiding him onto Greg’s lap - strong thighs to sit astride - broad shoulders to grip - Greg’s hot and restless kisses, painted all over his throat as he rocked and gasped and fell apart, lost in a rhythm that he’d never felt before. Nobody warned him his heart would still be beating in that rhythm.

 _Greg’s_  rhythm.

Greg’s ache - Greg’s sighs, breathed in ecstasy in his ear.

And now Greg’s comfort, stroked through his hair without a sound - slowly and steadily, over and over.

Greg makes no light of this moment. He holds Mycroft close, and lets Mycroft’s hands take shelter on his chest. Their legs wrap together and the silence is gentle, and Greg’s arms are kind. His hands are warm. He is, as ever, a man of patience - a man who waited.

He’s waiting even now. Keeping watch, as Mycroft finds what he needs in the quiet - waiting for Mycroft to come back.

Mycroft has never needed him more.

He wants to say it, but he can’t. He hasn’t even half the strength to speak. Now and then, when he has to stir to ease the ache, Greg’s arms open gently for a moment and give him the space he needs, then wrap back around him without a pause - without words.

Greg lets Mycroft touch his face, and offers eye contact when it’s sought - deep brown eyes, as gentle as his hands, there every moment Mycroft wants them.

When Mycroft’s fingertips touch his lips, Greg kisses them.

When Mycroft starts to fear the heat that’s growing behind his eyes, Greg gathers him close. He hides Mycroft away beneath his chin, safe and sound against his chest, and holds him there as he shakes.

He starts to stroke the back of Mycroft’s neck, tracing little shapes with his fingertips.

Letters.

Mycroft finds himself distracted by the patterns, saved from the brink of distress by the need to know - to know what it is being inscribed on him in this moment.

Only as the pattern repeats a third time, and Mycroft feels the return of ’M’, does he realise what it is. The ensuing ‘Y’ then confirms it.

It’s his name.

Mycroft lies in the quiet, bewildered, feeling Greg’s fingertips say his name to him - slowly, and steadily, over and over.

Almost half an hour goes by - half an hour of being held, and reminded - and with each silent cycle of his name, Mycroft returns more and more to the world. He finds himself growing more aware of his bedroom around them, unafraid as his mind ventures further and further from the safety of the sheets. His work-desk - his wardrobe - nightclothes crumpled on the floor - the sunlight on the curtains - a wren calling out in the grounds. It’s barely morning, and the day has just begun.

He can feel himself breathing again.

They don’t have to go anywhere today.

It’s why it happened this morning, and not the many other mornings they’ve woken up here: the thought that Greg would not soon be taken away in a car. Mycroft needed him to stay. He didn’t know for how long he’d need it. Minutes, perhaps - hours - the day. However long it would take, he knew the damage without it would be irreparable. Greg has slept here many nights, and clothing has never given way to skin.

There was something Mycroft needed first - and needed so much more than skin.

Greg has given it to him, piece-by-piece, morning-by-morning.

As he eases back from Greg’s chest, and his lover glances into his eyes - checking, gently asking - Mycroft realises with a sudden rush just how long he needs Greg to stay.

He looks into Greg’s eyes, overwhelmed with it. Trying to breathe with it.

Gazing back at him, there’s nothing but love.

Greg cups his cheek, brushes a thumb across his lips, and gently breaks the silence he has guarded all this time.

“You alright, darlin’?” A kiss - a gentle brush of the mouth that just had Mycroft calling out in pleasure; the lips that stroked and soothed him as he burned; the voice now speaking to him more softly than any human voice ever has. “Was all that okay?”

Mycroft swallows, marvelling.

There’s only one answer he can give.

“Yes,” he whispers. He wraps his arms around his lover’s shoulders. “Yes, it was…”

 


	21. Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has a sleep kink; he likes waking up to Greg pleasuring him. His husband is happy to oblige.

Greg can't remember how they discovered Mycroft enjoys this. 

Like so many of his husband's needs and behaviours, it's a power thing. Mycroft wields far too much authority during the day. If he wanted, he could collapse the political infrastructure of entire countries without leaving his desk. That sort of power only ever exists in balance. It means that when he comes home, he likes to hand the reins to someone else for a while. The chest at the bottom of their bed looks like it contains winter blankets; and in truth, their stashed collection of various toys and bondage ties certainly helps to keep them warm.

Sometimes toys aren't needed, though. 

Sometimes it's just about the situation.

One particular kind of closeness never fails to blow Mycroft's fuses. Greg doesn't do it often; the thrill is in the rarity. If Mycroft ever comes to expect it, it'll lose its kick - and Greg doesn't want his husband ever to lose this. 

Last night Mycroft was on a work call past one AM, sorting everything out so they could take this long weekend together. When he finally turned in, he was too tired and burned out to fuck. They cuddled and fell asleep together instead, wrapped up in the dark like dormice.

He's still asleep now, lying upon his back in a pool of almost angelic early morning sunlight. It catches on the redder curls in his hair, kissing each one with a little flash of flame. The white sheets rest gently across his body; beneath them, he's naked.

For a while, Greg simply watches him sleep with gentle fondness. Nobody else gets to witness Mycroft this way. Nobody sees him this vulnerable, this soft. They were fucking for nearly two years before Mycroft even slept in the same bed as Greg. Mycroft's personal life is conducted with absolute and perfect privacy, and Greg's never prouder to form the core of that life than in moments like this.

As he watches, he lets his thoughts settle into a slow and easy state - he lets them grow molten and soft. It's always a thrill, seeing how far he can get before he's discovered, and it's become something of a challenge over the years - but the trick is to ignore the natural urgency of his own body. It's important to take his time.

He starts by stroking one of Mycroft's thighs. He keeps the long glide of his fingertips slower than Mycroft's sleeping breath, not light enough to tickle, not firm enough to press. Mycroft's body knows his touch now. As he strokes, he thinks about that familiarity - he lets his fingertips whisper to Mycroft's skin that they are old friends, no threat.

Over the course of long minutes, he begins to ease his touch inwards.

As he pets Mycroft's inner thighs, a first sleepy murmur is given. Mycroft shifts a little, breathing in. He relaxes with his outbreath, his thighs naturally opening, and Greg smiles to himself as he watches Mycroft sleep. He strokes slowly, his fingers brushing higher each time; Mycroft's breathing starts to deepen. He stirs more often, subconsciously permitting more and more, until Greg feels confident more intimate touch won't wake him. 

He shifts his own weight with enormous care, snagging the lubricant from the bedside as he moves. He lets it take him a couple of minutes to get into place, kneeling between his husband's open thighs and gazing down at Mycroft as he sleeps. Mycroft is still deeply settled, tired after the late night. He doesn't stir, even as Greg gently pulls the sheets aside. 

Greg drizzles lube generously across his fingers. He won't want to be fumbling for more at a crucial moment. The game has only a single round, and today he wants to win.

As he slips his fingers between Mycroft's thighs, searching slowly for his entrance, Mycroft makes a little sound. In his sleep he parts his thighs and shifts against the feeling. Greg holds his breath, following Mycroft's movements gently.  _ Easy, baby. Only me. _ After a few moments, Mycroft settles again. 

Greg waits nearly a full minute before carrying on.

His circling caresses slowly fill out Mycroft's cock, thickening his breath and lifting colour in his cheeks. It's a hell of a turn-on, seeing Mycroft grow aroused in his sleep. If he's dreaming, the dreams are clearly helping. He seems a little restless already, sleepily spreading his thighs wider and making small sounds as Greg rubs the knot of muscle. His breath hitches with the first exploratory press; he takes it though, beautifully behaved for Greg even in his sleep, exhaling with a shivering sigh.

Heart pounding, Greg leans down. He wets his lips with a careful flash of his tongue, and spends an unhurried minute or two easing his mouth into place around Mycroft's cock.

It's getting harder to take his time. He's reached the stage he now  _ wants  _ Mycroft to wake up. He doesn't know why this has always worked for him so much - it's something about Mycroft so vulnerable, so safe in his hands, trusting and wanting and taking Greg even in his sleep.  _ So perfect for me. So good.  _ He's amazed to get Mycroft's cock half into his throat before there's even a sleepy grunt, more likely caused by the continued ingress of his finger. He waits, watching closely. 

Mycroft's breath leaves him in a faint, shaking sigh. He doesn't move.

Slowly, delighted by his achievement, Greg begins introducing a second finger to Mycroft's body. The further on through the process he can get, the greater final effect it will have. Once, Mycroft woke to Greg's cock just starting to nuzzle its way inside him. Greg will never forget that reaction. He's not heard Mycroft plead for something so desperately in all his life. 

He keeps on pressing slowly inwards, soothing his way deeper until Mycroft's body hugs both his fingers tight. The cock in his mouth twitches, hopefully. He knows he's asking to be caught now, but he can't resist rubbing gently with his tongue - wet, broad motions, slow and slick and easy. He suspects he timed this perfectly to the start of a conveniently-themed dream. Mycroft begins to rock just a little, sleepily chasing the pleasure he's being given, still half-conscious and hazy. His sounds are soft, feathered somewhere between breathing and moaning; it's making Greg so hard he has to press himself against the mattress just for relief. Mycroft has relaxed beautifully around his fingers. He feels warm and slick and ready, his body eager for Greg to give them more. If his mouth were empty, Greg might have smiled. He settles for sliding another inch of Mycroft's cock past his gag reflex, closing his eyes with a shiver. 

Slowly he starts to thrust with his fingers.

Mycroft's whole body twitches. He breathes in, hard, bucking gently - then releases a noise like a breathy whine. 

Greg feels the very moment when he wakes up. 

It's marked by another flash of tightness through Mycroft's muscles, as he discovers he's being touched - a shocked gasp - then a desperate, keening moan as realisation dawns.

His fingers rake through Greg's hair at once, scrunch and hold tight.

"Greg," he whimpers, his throat dry. It cracks as he gasps. "G-Greg - "

Greg hums around his mouthful, the sound thick, thrusting his fingers harder and faster into Mycroft's body. 

Mycroft bows upwards from the mattress. He cries out with need, tightening his grip in Greg's hair, and pulls back his legs for Greg to fingerfuck him deeper. It's easier to angle towards Mycroft's prostate like this; Greg thrusts against it over and over, listening with wild enjoyment to his husband's slew of pleas and blasphemy. He concentrates on building a rhythm between his mouth and his fingers, hard and fast, keeping Mycroft pinned into place as he tries to writhe for more.

As Mycroft's breath begins to tighten, and his begging and panting grow quiet, Greg releases his cock from his throat. He pulls out his fingers, ignores the desperate whimper of confusion, and pushes closer up the bed. 

As he takes hold of Mycroft's legs, spreading them wide apart and holding them there, Mycroft cries out.

_ "Fuck," _ he gasps, enunciating the sound with total conviction. He reaches down to guide Greg's cock to the oiled gape of his body. "Fuck, fuck - "

Greg's grips tightens on the back of Mycroft's thighs. He pushes inwards, panting.

Mycroft's fervent chanting of 'fuck' undergoes a distinct increase in pitch.

"Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck, fuck - " _

Greg realises his own hands are shaking. He can't bear to wait. Mycroft feels too tight, too slick and hot, and his pretty grey eyes are flashing with the desperate need to be fucked. Nobody in the world could resist that.

Holding Mycroft's legs in place, Greg begins to thrust almost at once.

Mycroft claws into the mattress beneath him. He throws his head back in delirium and hisses,  _ "Yessssss...!" _ from the very depths of his throat. The sound hitches into another cry as Greg slides a vital extra inch inside him; his teeth dig into his lip. 

_ "Greg," _ he whimpers, sobbing it. "Greg, pound me - please -  _ now - " _

It's animal and it's rough. The noises Mycroft makes are so pretty Greg wishes they were filming this. They fuck as if they need it to live, driving each other into a frenzy with their shared moans and pleas - and when Mycroft comes, he comes clawing at Greg's back. There'll be marks. Greg doesn't care.

He hits his own peak with almost volcanic relief, burying himself inside Mycroft to come. He bites into his lover's shoulder as wave after heaving wave of pleasure blister through his body. Mycroft moans it all back to him, stroking his hair - whispering in his ear to enjoy it.

In the pounding quiet which follows, Mycroft's thighs remained locked around Greg's waist. 

"Good morning," Greg murmurs. Mycroft's fingernails idle through the sweat now gleaming his back, petting him with almost lazy delight. "How'd you sleep?"

Mycroft inhales with a shiver. 

He lifts his head and laves a hungry lick along the column of Greg's throat. 

"I am  _ endlessly _ glad  I married you," he breathes.

 


End file.
